Limitless Evolution As a Snake

Perfect.

[System: Oi, question: can I watch this one?]

Absolutely not.

[System: Come on, mate, I never ask for anything.]

You ask for everything, constantly, all the time, that’s your whole personality.

[System: Fair. But this one’s special, i helped pick the skill out.]

It’s kind of weird if you watch, not going to lie.

[System: ...]

There’s a pause that stretches just a little too long, like he’s actually weighing it up in whatever weird disembodied brain space he lives in.

[System: Yeah, okay, fair point, that does sound odd. I’ll just check in after. Carry on, go be a menace.]

I rear up, smoke curling tighter around my coils, and pull up the skill window with a flick of my tongue. The prompt hovers there, glowing soft red, asking me to confirm my target.

Channel.

I don’t even hesitate. Perfect. A high-res voodoo doll, right in my living room. This is going to be fun.

The air in front of me folds in on itself, warps, then splits open like a curtain being yanked back, and there she is. Full size, full colour, standing right in my den in that same immaculate posture from the feed, mid-sentence, mouth still moving through words she doesn’t know she’s already spoken twice.

She doesn’t notice me yet. Still locked into performance mode, blue eyes soft and glassy with fake devotion, lips curved into that same practised warmth she’s been selling all night.

I glide closer, hovering silently, and the smoke off my scales curls around her ankles like it’s introducing itself. One more thing before I start. Snake-Eyes Gamble’s sitting right there too, and if I’m doing this, I might as well go all in.

[System: Ohhh, now we’re talking. Send it.]

I flip it.

The coin spins out from my smoke tail, flashing heads, tails, heads, tails, faster and faster until it isn’t really spinning at all anymore, just a blur of light and smoke before my eyes, and then it lands.

Tails.

Something in my head goes quiet all at once, like someone reached in and switched off every light in the building except one, and that one light is pointed straight at the woman standing in front of me.

The thoughts don’t disappear so much as they stop mattering. No more overthinking. No more second-guessing, no more Matt-shaped anxiety spiralling about consequences or feelings or any of that noise.

Just heat, just want, and just the warm, soft, breathing thing standing three feet away from me, smelling like performance and expensive perfume and something underneath that’s all her, and every single cell in my body screaming one word on repeat.

Mine.

My fins flare out wide, smoke pouring off them in thick curling ribbons, and my tail lashes hard enough to crack against the floor. The clone’s still talking, still smiling, still lost in her little performance loop, completely unaware that the real predator in the room just stopped pretending to be civilised.

I don’t growl. Snakes don’t growl. But something low and rattling comes out of me anyway, vibrating up through my coils, and I surge forward before I even finish deciding to.

The air hung thick with Channel’s amplified speech echoing from the stage.

My serpentine form throbbed with a raw, untamed hunger, fixated on the muscular torso below me. I was all smoke and coiled desire, lust given form, staring down Channel’s clone—a flawless, silent replica of the oblivious harpy still ranting on the live stream.

My mind was nothing but static, drowned out by primal urges. Clothes off the harpy slut. now.

I didn’t have hands. I had something better. Tensing my core, thick tendrils of inky smoke lashed out from my body, forming phantom limbs as solid as muscle yet fluid as storm clouds.

One smoky fist shot forward, faster than a striking viper, bunching the delicate pink fabric of the clone’s tiny top. The clone jerked, its borrowed awareness registering the phantom pull. On stage, the real Channel gasped mid-sentence, stumbling as her own bodice tightened against her chest, the silk straining.

Oh, that worked. Fuck yeah.

I yanked harder. The silk tore like tissue, the sound sharp in the quiet before the clone. Two perfect, bouncy, soft tits spilled free, round and ripe as cream-dipped peaches, their dusky nipples hardening in the sudden chill.

On stage, Channel screamed, the mic swallowing her shock as her own top shredded open, baring her identical curves to the stunned crowd. She clutched at herself instinctively. The clone mirrored her, arching its back, offering itself to my ravenous gaze.

”Y-yes! Oh! Wha—?!” The clone’s voice trembled, echoing Channel’s confusion and rising shock. Its fingers dug into its own flesh. On stage, Channel did the same, squeezing her plump breasts, a flush creeping up her neck.

I lunged forward, my blunt serpent snout pressing between those soft mounds. My forked tongue flicked out, impossibly long, tracing the stiff peaks of her left nipple before sealing my scaly lips around it, sucking hard.

Schlorrrk.

I pulled deep, the sensitive nub swelling against the roof of my mouth. Warmth flooded my tongue, sweet blossoms, salt, something electric. The clone cried out, a guttural moan escaping.

”Ahn! Yesss! More!”

Its back arched further. On stage, Channel’s eyes flew wide, her hand dropping from her breast to claw at the invisible mouth on her nipple as my phantom suckle sent shockwaves through her. Her knuckles whitened.

”Ahh! P-please! Stop! Don’t s-st—!”

Begging? Sounded like asking me. I willed more smoke to coil out, forming another phantom fist that latched onto her other tit, the one I hadn’t touched yet. My ghostly fingers sank deep into that yielding flesh, and I squeezed in a rhythm that felt right, the pulsing, desperate pressure of a lover who couldn’t get enough. My smoke thumb found her nipple, pinching, rolling. Squeeze.

”Unnggh! FUCK!” the clone howled, its head thrown back, hips jerking helplessly.

”Yes! Squeeze harder! Please!” On stage, Channel bucked as if I’d already started fucking her, her perfect speech dissolving into choked, wet gasps. I watched her tits move under her own hands, kneaded by my invisible, demanding grip. A dark patch bloomed high on her skirt, moisture seeping through the thin fabric.